


Wake the Dead, Embrace the Dead

by TristansGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam sacrifices himself to save his brother from unimaginable pain and death. Now Dean has 30 days in which to find his brother before he loses him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written because of 1: The need to see Sam sacrifice himself for Dean.  
> 2\. The need to see Sam in a hospital bed.

_  
**The tenth day.**   
_

It is the pain that wakes him.

It drags him from sleep and forces his eyes open until he’s looking out into the opaque darkness. He does this for long minutes before closing his eyes and trying again for the oblivion of sleep. But sleep doesn’t come, the pain won’t let it, and a moment later he is opening his eyes again, blinking against the dark, his eyes growing quickly accustomed to it.

It is the moonlight that draws him.

Draws him out from under the cold arm draped over his body and to his feet. He stands there a moment, feeling like a newborn foal, all long, wobbly legs and no coordination, willing himself not to fall back down. Willing himself not to fall and jar the thing he shares a bed with. Willing himself not to wake it.

With a warm rush of relief, he realizes that he’s going to stay upright. He staggers over to the lone window and the moonlight that filters through it. He reaches it and places one hand against the cool glass, leaning in to stare outside. He can see so much from up here. It’s only the second story and yet he can see for miles. He sees the countryside spread out before him, the outlines of the nearby houses, the more distant lights of the town.

For a moment he considers opening the window and stealing outside, limping to the nearest house, throwing himself on the doorstep and begging the occupants for help.

For a moment, he feels that he will do it, and shaky fingers grasp the metal latch.

Yet only seconds later, his fingers drop away. He can’t go. He can’t even try. He had sworn that he would be willing. He had promised it that he would obey.

He just never imagined that it would hurt so badly.

He doesn’t even realize that the thing is awake until it touches him on the shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Sam? Can’t sleep?”

It is a woman’s voice, all soft and honeyed, that asks the question.

He closes his eyes briefly and whispers, “My brother’s going to come for me. And then he’ll destroy you.”

“What did you say?”

A ripple of fear causes him to shudder. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

He turns his head to face it. “Nothing,” he tries to say, but his voice cracks on the word. Too long spent screaming.

It lays a petite, soft hand on his arm and looks up at him through its pretty-girl mask. “Come back to bed, Sam. You need to rest.”

He pulls away, shaking his head and whispering, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Sam . . . ”

“Don’t talk like you’re human. Like you care.”

It shakes its head, its long hair shifting against a graceful neck, before snaking an impossibly strong arm around his waist. “Back to bed,” it says, and this time its tone is forceful, like a mother speaking to an errant child.

He lets himself be led back to the bed, leaning against its body for support when his legs try to give.

He winces as he’s laid down on the mattress, gasping as the movement causes the pain to go from dull throb to searing heat.

“You need your sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

He gives a weak nod. He knows tomorrow will be a long day. Just as today was. And the one before it. And the eight before it.

He is ten days in.

He has twenty days to go.

Just the thought of it makes him moan in despair.

A hand snakes through his hair and begins to card through it with a gentleness that surprises him.

“Shh . . . ” it tells him. “Shh . . . ”

He sighs and closes his eyes and accepts the kindness.

And dreads the coming of tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

_**The fourth day** _

Frustration and anger build within him until he feels as though that’s all there is, as though that’s all there ever will be. He can feel the dual emotions running through his veins, leaching out through his pores, bubbling up to his throat until he’s certain he’s going to choke on them.

Growling, he slams the laptop shut and hefts it into the air, only seconds away from hurling it at the wall and disintegrating it before some semblance of rational thought stops him.

He recognizes, even through the anger, that this would not be a good move. So instead he mutters, “Useless piece of shit,” and tosses it down on the table, standing up on legs made shaky from too much adrenaline and too little sleep.

He rakes a hand through his hair and stalks the length of the motel room, trying to make his mind work, to think.

There was no solid information about the monster in any of the library books he spent all day looking through.

There was no solid information about it anywhere on the internet.

Bobby had never heard of it.

Neither had Ellen.

So how the hell is he supposed to find a monster in a city of more than eighty thousand people when all he has are the vaguest of references to winged changelings? How is he supposed to track it and kill it?

How the hell is he supposed to help Sam?

He comes to a dead stop, suddenly exhausted. Suddenly afraid.

But that’s not right, is it? He’s beenafraid. He’s been afraid for four days now, ever since that thing took him. Ever since that thing took Sammy.

Like a man cursed with eidetic memory, his mind decides it will now conjure up the most gruesome details from all the autopsy reports that he and Sam had read through. And if that wasn’t bad enough, his mind follows with a slide show of the victims. All in glorious color - vivid reds, blacks and blues.

He tries to shut out the images, tries not to see the words.

But God . . . he can’t stop remembering.

“Damn it, Sam,” he shouts into the empty room, at nothing. “It wanted me, you idiot. It was gonna take me.”

His voice melts into a whisper as he drops his head into his hands. “Not you.”

Not Sam.

God, not Sam.

He rubs the palms of his hands against tired eyes and summons to mind the last thing Sam said to him before he was taken. Right before the pretty girl with the mean right hook had sprouted dark, leather wings from her back. Right before she had tugged Sam toward her and disappeared with him into the clouds

“It’s ok. You have thirty days. I know you’ll find me.”

The hollow laugh that’s ripped from his throat feels strangely like defeat.


	3. Chapter 3

_**The twelfth day** _

 

He’s learned a few things about it since he’s been with it.

He’s learned that it likes to wear a pretty girl’s face when it’s pleased or satisfied. It wears this one a lot. He doesn’t give it many reasons to be unhappy with him.

It wears a man’s face when it’s upset. Or wants to show its dominance.

Or when it feeds.

And sometimes, like now, it wears a little girl mask for absolutely no discernable reason at all.

She’s cute. This fake little girl, with her dark curls and her big, blue eyes. She looks about six or seven, all youth and innocence.

He decided a long time ago that he hates her most of all.

“Are you coming, Sam?” it calls out to him from somewhere on the first floor.

He shudders when he hears the lilt of the little girl voice but he moves to comply nevertheless.

He grips the banister tight in one hand and makes his way down the stairs, mindful of the cuts and bruises. The ever-present pain.

He finds it in the middle of the kitchen, of all places.

“You took your shower,” it says, gazing up at his still damp hair.

“You told me to,” he says and somehow manages to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Of course he took a shower - like he was going to refuse? Like he was going to risk getting it angry?

“You’re such a good boy.”

Good boy.

Good dog.

Heel.

Sit.

“I want you to make yourself some breakfast.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Sam, you need to eat. You need to keep up your strength.”

“Why?” he asks, incredulous. “What’s the point?”

It pouts at him, an honest to God pout, and crosses its arms at its chest. “Because I said so.”

“Look, I really don’t think I can eat anything, ok? I think I’m just going to throw it up.”

It tilts its head, considering. “Then make some toast,” it says brightly. “That’s good for when you’re feeling sick.”

He’s just about to tell it that he doesn’t want toast. He doesn’t want anything for God’s sake, he feels like he’s been run over by a fucking tractor trailer, when he catches himself.

He made a deal.

He agreed to this and he intends to stand by his word.

If he doesn’t, it might decide to dump him and take someone else.

And there is no way in hell he’s letting that happen.

He stows the backtalk and nods instead, shuffling over to the counter with a limp to his gait that was never there before. “Sure,” he mumbles as he reaches for the bread.

He’s placing the bread in the toaster when he feels it wrap its little-girl arms around his waist.

It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to push it away.

Later, after he’s managed to keep the toast down, it leads them over to the couch and turns on the tv.

It has him lie across the couch, so that his head rests on its lap, and begins to run small fingers through his hair.

It feels weirdly . . . good. He recognizes that anything that’s not pain is going to feel good right now. But it also feels incredibly wrong and after a moment he dares to ask, “Could you . . . could you not be the little girl?”

“What do you mean?”

He turns his head so he can see its face. “It just feels too strange. It’s too . . . ”

It gives a small, knowing smile. “Too intimate?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

It stops its ministrations and looks down at him, face serious as it thinks.

Finally it says, “I can look like him. If you want.”

“Who?”

“Dean.”

This confuses him and he’s at a loss for what to say.

“You call out his name in your sleep,” it offers. “You sacrificed yourself for him, gave yourself to me willingly. I figure he must mean a lot to you.”

“He does, but . . . ”

“Who is he to you? A friend? Is he your lover?”

What is it with everybody thinking he and Dean are gay?

“No,” he says, managing a tiny, incredulous laugh. “He’s my brother.”

“Oh. Well, it doesn’t matter. I can look like him if you want me to. I can mimic anybody I touch, as long as they’re still alive.”

“So the three people that you always look like . . . ” he stops, making the statement a question.

“People from another place, a long time ago,” it whispers, sounding almost wistful.

“Oh.”

“So, do you?”

“No,” he says decisively. “I don’t want you to look like Dean.”

It nods, and while Sam watches, it changes into the pretty girl.

He turns back to the tv. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“You’re welcome.”

They stay like this for the better part of two hours, watching tv in silence. Between the programs that occupy his mind and the thing’s gentle touch, the pain goes from sharp to dull and Sam closes his eyes and begins to relax.

“Sam.”

He startles and blinks at the sound of his name. Had he been asleep?

“Yeah?” he mumbles.

“I’m hungry.”

He stiffens, his heart beating strong against his chest. He recognizes the sour taste in his mouth.

It is fear.

“Sam.”

He nods and pushes his body up to a sitting position and looks at its face. It’s changing already, changing into the man.

If he looks close enough, he can see something beneath the human facade, something dark and terrible flickering just underneath the surface.

He closes his eyes, not wanting to catch even a glimpse of it, and holds his arms out. He offers submission. He offers himself.

“Ok, I’m ready.”

But he’s not. He never is.

And this time, it seems it hardly takes any time at all for the screams to begin.


	4. Chapter 4

_**The sixteenth day** _

The bottle is solid and heavy in his hand and as he tips it against his lips, the fire that burns down his throat feels strangely soothing.

He knows he should not be drinking during a hunt (and hadn’t he chastised Sam for doing the very same thing not too long ago?), but he’s at about the end of his rope, about to strangle himself with the fucking thing actually, and he really just needs a damned drink.

It’s three o’clock in the morning and he’s just spent another day searching for Sam in this godforsaken town. He’s lost count of the number of sewers he’s crawled through, the number of warehouses and old buildings he’s searched, the number of windows he’s peered into.

Logic dictates that the thing keeping Sam would be hiding out somewhere far from the center of town, somewhere where no suspicions would be aroused by unusual behavior.

Somewhere where no one would hear the screams.

Shit. He really doesn’t want to think about that. Really, really doesn’t want to think about that. He takes a long swallow of the whiskey in a desperate bid to derail his thoughts before they take him places he doesn’t want to go.

“I am so gonna kick your ass when I find you, Sam,” he mutters as he shoots a glance at the ceiling.

He follows that with another drink. And another.

And another for good measure.

“I am so gonna kick your ass,” he says again, and this time there’s a vehemence in his voice that wasn’t there before. He sets the bottle down and gazes at it, contemplating the bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Is he angry at Sam?

He cocks his head to the side, thinks about the question.

Is he?

Is he angry at Sam for stepping in and playing the hero? For giving himself to that monster?

The answer, when it comes to him, is obvious.

Oh yeah. He’s pissed. He’s pissed as hell at Sam.

He is barely aware that the bottle is back in his hands. Reflexively, he takes another long pull and is rewarded with more burn. More comfort.

Yeah. He’s pissed as fucking hell.

And with that realization, he launches the bottle straight at the wall where it explodes into a thousand pieces.

He’s pissed at Sam for playing the hero.

And with a swipe of his arm he sends everything on the table, including the laptop, crashing to the floor.

He’s pissed at the monster that took Sam.

He stands, picks up the chair and throws it at the whiskey dripping down the wall.

But most of all . . . most of all he is pissed at himself. Because he is the one who fucked up. He let Sam be taken. He let Sam down.

He is the one who failed.

He drops to his knees, ignoring the pounding on the wall from the room next door telling him to be quiet.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Fuck!” The word is torn from his throat in a primal scream, drenched in rage and helplessness and alcohol.

And it hits him then, just like it’s hit him every single day for sixteen days straight.

He is alone.

He is running out of time.

He is running out of options.

And every day that is wasted is another day closer to finding Sam’s twisted and broken body dumped behind some alley - illustrious victim number five.


	5. Chapter 5

_**The nineteenth day** _

The mirror shows him the face of a holocaust victim. He sees hollow cheekbones and sunken, glassy eyes, the dark circles underneath them smudges of black.

He reaches out a shaky hand to the stranger before him, barely touching the glass with his fingertips before he has to look away.

He hangs his head, his bangs dropping against his eyes, so that he sees nothing. As he grips the sink for support, he begins to softly cry.

Nineteen days.

It’s taken him nineteen days to cry.

He supposes that he should be proud of that. But it’s really hard to feel anything at all anymore.

Except, of course, the pain. But that’s a given.

With his head bowed and his thoughts unsettled, he does not notice that it has entered the bathroom until he feels the cold hand against his back.

A soft hand, with nails that scrape light against his skin. That means it’s wearing the pretty girl mask again.

“Sam,” it says. “Come to bed. It’s been a long day.”

He nods and lifts his head, avoiding the face in the mirror; the one he doesn’t want to admit is his own.

Turning, he leans into its body as he limps toward the bedroom. By the time they reach the bed, it all but carries him.

He holds onto the edge of the mattress and eases his body down, and it hurts - god it hurts - and he doesn’t even care that he’s making these pathetic, little, half-moans as he moves.

When he’s settled against the pillows, blankets up to his waist, it sits down on the bed and hands him a glass from the night stand.

“Here, drink this.”

“What is it?” he asks, voice reduced to a whisper yet again.

“It’s something to help you sleep. Nothing bad.”

He considers for a moment. It has never offered him anything like this before. But then again, it has been growing kinder every day - the more pain it bestows, the nicer it becomes. He finally decides that he has no reason to believe this is a lie. And if it is - he doesn’t much care. He takes the glass and downs it as fast as his tender throat will allow him, desperate for a quick ticket away from the pain.

He hands the glass back and watches its pretty face as it watches him.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asks after a moment.

It gives a kind smile. “Because I like you, Sam.”

“No . . . you like that I do what you tell me to do.”

It laughs, low and throaty. “I guess that’s true. I also like that you’re not constantly begging me to stop. Or trying to escape. Or crying.” As it says this, it wipes a stray tear from his cheek. He smiles despite himself.

“But the truth is,” it continues. “I like you, Sam. Maybe more than any of the others.”

“I don’t understand how you can like me, and then hurt me.”

“Yes, you do. You know why.”

Shifting to take the pressure off of the welts on his back, he curls up on his side. Looking up at it, he gives a jerky nod. “Because you have to feed.”

“Because I have to live,” it corrects.

“By living off of pain.”

The look on its face is serious and troubled. “You think I enjoy doing this. I don’t. I don’t like putting people through this.”

“Then why do it?” he asks in an urgent tone, needing to understand. “Why don’t you just stop if it’s so horrible?”

“Because I want to live.” It says this as if it’s the most matter-of-fact statement in the world. And maybe it is. “That’s all any of us wants, Sam. To live.”

He nods as he yawns. He can’t argue with that. Not now anyway. Maybe when he’s not so fuzzy, not so tired.

He closes his eyes, recognizing that whatever it gave him is starting to kick in.

He burrows deeper into the pillow and prepares for sleep. A moment later, he feels its fingers running through his hair. He welcomes the touch; what has become almost a nightly ritual for them.

“Can I ask you something?” it asks.

He tries to open his eyes, but fails miserably. “Yeah,” he says.

“Tell me why you’ve stayed here. I know that you gave yourself so I wouldn’t take your brother. But you haven’t tried to escape once. You’ve never once tried to fight me or get help.” It pauses and he can almost sense its confusion. “I just don’t understand.”

A few days ago he would have lied. But now, there doesn’t seem to be much point to it. He’s not afraid of this creature, whatever it is, anymore. Afraid of the pain, yes. But not of it. And much like he welcomes its gentle touch, he welcomes the conversation. “Stockholm Syndrome,” he mutters to himself.

“What?”

Eyes still closed and stifling another yawn, he says, “I thought my brother would come and . . . save me, I guess. I thought I could hold out until it happened. And I thought I’d be keeping you from hurting another innocent person in the meantime.”

“And you’re not innocent?”

“No. Not innocent,” he mumbles, barely able to get the words out. He’s tired now, so very tired.

“Your brother was supposed to kill me?”

“That was . . . the plan.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He has to think about this, concentrate on making his lips move and his mouth make the right sounds. “Now,” he says slowly, “I don’t think he’s coming.”


	6. Chapter 6

_**The twenty-fourth day** _

He eases the car out of the parking lot and into traffic, only a portion of his mind actually paying attention to the task at hand. Mostly, he’s lost in his own thoughts. It’s a testament to how long he’s been in this town, how many hours he’s logged in searching for Sam, that he can navigate the streets without so much as a glance at a map.

As he drives, his eyes drift to the rearview mirror and the police station that grows ever smaller behind him.

He’s still not sure that he’s done the right thing, bringing the cops into it like this. Not that he has anything against cops per se - they do a good job at serving and protecting . . . when they’re dealing with human beings. But they tend to suck ass when it comes to things like this. But still, he’s not too proud to admit that he needs the extra manpower, the extra eyes, looking for his brother.

Even if it means putting Sam on the Feds’ radar.

It took a long time to come to the decision, but in the end, there was really no choice. Having Sammy alive and in jail is a thousand times better than having Sammy rotting in a grave.

The light changes and he slows the car down to a stop and leans back against the seat.

Truth is, he’s not even sure if Sam’s still in this town. The fucking thing had wings, for Christ’s sake. They could be halfway across the country. They could be literally anywhere while he wastes time chasing his own tail here.

He sighs and turns his head, tired of his thoughts. Tired of the nightmares they show him.

But mostly just tired, period.

It doesn’t help that his head is pounding again, hard enough that his brain feels as if it’s going to go through his skull or that every so often his vision blurs and he sees double.

Waiting for the light to change, he lets his fingers drum out nonsense rhythms on the steering wheel while his eyes dully take in the surrounding area.

And that’s when he sees it, just up ahead to the left.

St. Andrew’s.

The sound of a horn honking tells him that the light’s changed while he wasn’t paying attention.

He moves the car forward, fully intent on driving to the western outskirts of the town. There are a lot of older houses with nice, big lots he hasn’t had the chance to check out yet.

And yet, he doesn’t go but one block before he’s making a completely unsafe U-turn and heading straight for the church, not stopping until he’s sitting in its parking lot.

He gets out of the car and slams the door shut, taking a few tentative steps toward the entrance.

He falters, almost stumbling, as he realizes that this is insane. Going to the cops is one thing. This is another. He does not believe. He hasn’t for so long that it feels as if he never did.

So why is he here?

And why is he still walking forward?

Despite the questions, despite the doubts, he opens one of the double doors and steps inside, walking past the vestibule to the church proper. He stops there and looks down the row of pews to the altar and its image of a crucified Christ.

He remembers all of this from time spent with Pastor Jim in his church. It’s funny how it all comes back, even years later. The ritual, the pomp and circumstance of this particular church.

He doesn’t allow himself to become self-conscious. Letting the memories guide him, he genuflects fully, arming himself with the sign of the cross before sliding into the first empty pew he sees. If he’s going to do this, he thinks, he may as well do it right.

He kneels, hangs his head and brings his hands together . . . and proceeds to just sit there, in silence.

Well, this is awkward.

Now that he’s made it this far, he’s not really sure what to do next. How do you talk to someone you’re not even sure really exists?

A moment later he answers his own question. By reminding himself that he’s here for Sam, that’s how.

He clears his throat and, forcing out one word after another, begins to speak. Tentative and halting at first, unsure of the right thing to say, he begins to pray. He finds it gets easier the longer he talks. Sitting there, in the muted light of the church, he begs God for Sam’s life, begs for a miracle, a sign. Anything.

Anything at all.

Eventually, his words run dry and he’s out of things to say. Wiping away an errant tear, he leans back against the pew, feeling wrung out and exhausted yet oddly more at peace than he has in days.

A moment later, he’s gone, back in his car, to the world he knows; to the world he understands.

Shaking his head in disbelief and wonderment, he barks out a joyless laugh. He’s done two things today that he never thought he would do in a million years - asked the cops and God for help.

And now that he’s officially lost his mind?

Now he gets to search this fucking town one more fucking time.

“Oh, Sammy,” he says quietly, voice tinged with desperate madness. “I am so gonna kick your ass when I find you.”

He’s just turned on the engine when he hears his phone’s ring tone.

He opens it with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Hello?”

“Dean. It’s Bobby.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I found something.”


	7. Chapter 7

_**The twenty-fourth day** _

They begin to talk to help fill in the gaps of static time. They exchange pieces of their lives, offering them up on platters to the other for inspection.

It tells him that it thinks it’s the last of its kind. It tells him of moving from town to town, city to city for as long as it can remember and that this is the longest it’s ever been in one place. It tells him with a sad sigh that it’s time to move on. It likes this town, that’s why it’s stayed so long, but it’s time to move on.

He listens to every word and then tells it that it sounds like a very lonely life.

It agrees.

He tells it about losing his mother and Jess. He tells it about hunting and the lifestyle he tried so hard to run away from. He tells it about losing his father and about the dark destiny that he fears awaits him. Then he talks about his brother, the one person who’s always been there for him, the one person he’d do anything for.

It tells him that his life sounds lonely too.

He agrees.

He lies on his side in the bed after another one of their talks, naked except for a pair of boxers, the lightest sheet covering him only up to his waist. He stopped bothering with clothes a few days ago, when even the feel of the fabric against his skin hurt him. He also stopped bothering getting out of bed - he is too weak to move and there is no point in it.

It comes to him, sits down at his side, its hand going immediately to his hair.

He knows that it’s almost time to feed, and the now-familiar sick feeling of dread has begun to wash over him.

“I know what comes next,” he rasps.

“What do you mean?”

“I read those police reports, the autopsy reports. The last few days . . . they’re the worst, aren’t they?”

“Sam, don’t think about that.”

“My muscles and ligaments will start to tear. My bones will start to break. The cuts, the burns, the bruises, they’re all going to become a hundred times worse.” He pauses, and he sees confirmation in the guilt in its eyes.

“And finally . . . what? My heart and my brain burst, right? That’s how it ends?”

“That’s how it ends, Sam.”

“Death will be a mercy, won’t it?”

Instead of responding, it asks, “Are you afraid?”

He takes a moment to think about the question, thinks it important that he give an honest answer.

“I’m afraid of the pain. I’m not gonna lie - that’s gonna be a really bad way to go.” He curls his body inward a little and drops his voice until it’s almost a whisper. “And I’m afraid for Dean. I don’t know what it’s going to do to him when I leave him alone.” He looks up at it, offers a shaky smile. “Dean doesn’t do alone real well.”

Before it can reply, he adds, “But I’m not afraid to die. It’s weird, I know. But I think I’m ready.”

“Are you?”

“I’m tired,” he says with a small nod. “Not just because of this. I’m just tired. This life - the things I see. Sometimes I don’t think I can take anymore. Sometimes I don’t want to.”

The next few minutes are spent in silence as it caresses his hair and runs fingertips along the curves of his face. It all seems placid enough, but he can tell that it’s almost time. It’s hungry and it’s not going to wait much longer.

“Will you do something for me?” he asks.

“What is it?”

“Will you be him?”

It cocks its head to the side, not understanding.

“You said you would once. You said you could be Dean.”

“Are you sure? You said before . . . ”

“Yes,” he says, cutting it off. His eyes slide to the floor before focusing back on its face. “I’m sure. Please.”

“Yes, all right.”

And it does as he asks.

As he watches, its body changes, elongates, broadens, until he no longer sees the pretty woman.

Now it is his brother that holds vigil over him, his brother’s masculine hand entwined in his hair, his brother’s eyes watching him almost tenderly.

“Dean.” He exhales the name, letting himself fall into the illusion.

It nods and it is Dean’s voice that answers back. “Yeah, Sammy. It’s me.”

“Missed you.”

“Missed you too.”

He holds out his arms, unaware of the dazed smile on his face. “I know it’s time.”

And Dean’s head nods although his face looks sad. “You make this so hard, Sam.”

“It’s ok. Just do it.”

One more quick nod and it places one of Dean’s hands on each of his arms. He watches as the fingers elongate until the tips are razor-sharp points. He watches as those razor-sharp points embed themselves in his flesh.

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

The pain comes fast and hard, generating from the very core of his body and pulsating outward, until it manifests itself on his flesh. He can feel new bruises forming, new cuts opening, new burns appearing.

He clamps down on a scream, more through force of habit than anything else. A moment later he feels it. It’s as if he jinxed himself because now he can feel the muscle in his calf tearing.

But still he does not scream, not until he feels his ankle snap in half like a toothpick.

Panting, he looks up at it through eyes that are bleary with tears.

He sees Dean’s head thrown back, eyes closed, his face flush with ecstacy. He has a brief moment to contemplate how glad he is that Dean is here with him and that it is Dean that is doing this to him before another tearing pain assaults him and another scream is torn from his throat.

Mercifully, he loses consciousness long before it ends, so he does not feel it when the thing retracts its claws nor does he feel it when it gathers his body up in an embrace.

He does not hear it whisper against his ear. “Hush now, Sam. It's almost over. It's almost all over.”


	8. Chapter 8

_**The twenty-fifth day** _

His grip on consciousness is tenuous at best and he is perfectly all right with that. He is content to lie here, drifting in and out of awareness, in a twilight zone where thoughts and feelings only register as something hazy and half-formed before disappearing completely.

He is only peripherally aware that he is much worse off today than he was before. He feels broken and torn, like a doll that has been played with too hard, too often. He is peripherally aware that sometimes he is much too hot and sometimes much too cold but always shivering; shivering so hard that it intensifies the pain. He is also aware that the low, mournful sounds echoing in his ears are the sounds of his own moans.

But there’s something else, something else that at first registers just below his radar. He uses what feels like the last of his strength to concentrate, to focus, on it. It is the sound of rain falling and wind howling. A storm, then - powerful enough that it sounds like the skies are being torn open. Despite the violence of it, he finds it soothing. Like a lullaby. That and the feel of Dean’s fingers brushing against his skin make him feel safe. Safe enough to let consciousness slip away again.

It is then that yet another sound registers. A sound so soft it is like an echo in a dream.

The growl of an Impala’s engine.

But that makes no sense to him. That would mean that Dean was outside and that can’t be right.

Dean is here. With him.

Isn’t he?

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It hurts, his hand, where he has slammed it into the steering wheel repeatedly. He’s glad of the pain, because he knows he deserves it. He deserves so much worse, but this is all the punishment he can conjure up for himself at the moment.

It was supposed to be a small nap. Just a small nap.

Instead he’d slept the entire afternoon, not waking until it was already dark, losing hours of precious hunting time.

Losing hours of time that could have been spent looking for Sammy.

A sharp gust of wind knocks the car to the side, reminding him that he is in the middle of the worst fucking storm he has ever seen and that he needs to pay attention.

So he does, he takes a deep breath and concentrates on the road, on pushing the car forward past the wind and the sleeting rain. It doesn’t help that most of the town is experiencing a black out due to the storm, turning this into an exercise in futility.

He takes a moment to look heavenward, wondering if this is how God has decided to help him find Sam.

“Thanks a whole fucking lot.” The words are spoken sarcastically but without any real rancor. What had he expected anyway, that God would send down a sign with a big arrow showing him where to go?

His eyes find the outline of the road again, just in time to see a bolt of lightning strike a tree just a few yards in front of him, splitting off one of its huge branches and knocking it to the ground in front of him.

He barely stops in time, barely keeps the car from fishtailing right off the road.

He sits there for a few moments, trying to calm his frantically beating heart, his eyes still sensitive from the near-searing light.

At length he steps out of the car, brandishing his flashlight like a weapon. He can see the tree limb, large and heavy and only a few inches away from completely demolishing the hood and engine of his car.

“Jesus.”

Just then, more lightning, though this time it stays harmlessly in the sky where it belongs. It illuminates everything around him though, and that’s when he sees it. A house, tall and stately, and set back farther than any of the other houses on this street. He would have missed it, would have driven right by it in the dark if it hadn’t been for the tree limb stopping the car and that flash of lightning.

He turns his head up toward the night sky and feels the assault of rain on his face. “You trying to tell me something here?” But this time the words are not spoken in sarcasm. This time his words are laced with a glimmer of hope and a good dose of wonderment

As he grabs his machete and heads toward the house, he hangs onto that hope and wonderment. Hangs onto them because they’re all he has left.


	9. Chapter 9

The twenty-fifth day

 

He knows it the moment he steps foot in the house.

He knows that it’s the right house. He knows that Sam is here.

He’s never shown any psychic abilities, never shown any talent for picking up vibrations, and yet he doesn’t even question the feeling. To him it’s undeniable - Sam is here.

But Sam isn’t alone.

It’s hard to hear, hard to see, and his body is as tight as a bow string as he searches each of the rooms downstairs carefully and methodically.

Nothing. Nothing here. Upstairs then.

As he moves to the bottom of the staircase, the conversation he had with Bobby yesterday flashes in his mind, reminding him of why he carries the machete in his hand.

 _“I found something in an old Sumerian text. It described a problem that several of the villages were having. A problem with something that they called plague-bringers.”_

 _“Plague-bringers?”_

 _“Yeah. The way they’re described, they’re some sort of vampire, but they lived off of pain instead of blood. Their touch alone caused pain. They were also able to transform the pain into physical injuries. Which caused more pain. Which they then fed off of.”_

 _“Pain vampires. You think it’s the same thing? The thing that took Sam?”_

 _“I don’t know. But the injuries, the thirty days, the wings, the shape-shifting . . . it’s all the same.”_

 _“Why haven’t I ever heard of these things?”_

 _“They’re all supposed to be dead, at least according to this text. Wiped out. Dean, I think what you’ve got on your hands is some sort of throwback. Maybe the last of it’s kind.”_

 _“So how do I kill this thing, Bobby?”_

 _“Simple. You cut off its head.”_

 _“And how do I find it?”_

 _“That, Dean . . . that’s what I can’t help you with.”_

He emerges from the memory just as he’s moving up the stairs. He walks stealthily, silent as a ghost until he comes to an open door. He steps inside what can only be the master bedroom and swings the flashlight in an arc, stopping when he gets to the bed in the middle of the room.

There, illuminated in the flashlight’s beam, lies his brother.

“Sammy!” The name, though spoken urgently, is no more than a whisper, barely heard over the storm still raging outside.

He lowers the machete and begins to rush forward only to feel an arm encircle his throat. Before he can react, a hand grabs at his wrist and he feels the machete forced from his grasp and thrown to the ground. The flashlight soon follows suit, clattering uselessly to the ground a few feet away. He feels the grip around his throat loosen and he is whirled around so that he comes face to face with . . . himself.

Even in the dark, he knows his own face. He stumbles backward, surprised. “What the . . . ”

“Dean,” it says. “Pleasure to see you again.”

And just like that the moment of shock is gone, replaced by anger. It doesn’t matter that it’s wearing his face - he’s already destroyed one monster that looked like him, he has no problem destroying another. “You son of a bitch,” he growls as he launches himself at it. It’s not the best mode of attack, but he can’t think past the white-hot anger. He feels as if his very blood is boiling and all he wants to do, all he can think to do, is to tear and rend and destroy.

He lands on it, sending them both tumbling to the ground hard. Hard enough to jar. But it only takes him a second to get his bearings and start throwing punches.

He manages to land a couple before he is flipped over so that he is flat on his back, his fists pinned to the ground beside his head.

Well, shit, so much for the big rescue.

As he stares up at his own face, he can see something shift underneath it, something dark, darker even than the night surrounding them.

“I could kill you now,” it says as it leans its head toward him. “Easy. I could snap your neck like a chicken’s.”

His only response is to buck up against it and glare, daring it silently to even try.

“But I won’t,” it says, and a moment later the crushing grip on his wrists is released. “You have to take care of your brother. He needs you.”

It stands up then in one quick, fluid movement and takes a couple of steps toward the bed.

He sits up, rubbing at his sore wrists, wary as he looks for the trick. “What?” he asks.

His doppleganger walks over to stand right next to Sam and lays a hand atop his head, causing Sam to shift and moan.

Even from here Dean can see it is a tender gesture and it sickens him more than he could ever explain.

“Don’t you touch him, you bastard,” he says as he stands, already edging toward the discarded machete.

“Take care of this one. He’s very special.”

He’s about to say something along the lines of, no shit, when the thing in front of him changes.

What stands in front of him now is a twisted thing, hunched and malformed with long, dripping fangs and talons that drag almost to the ground.

He knows that he is seeing its true form.

And its true form is terrifying.

He’s about to look away from it when it turns abruptly and lopes toward the window. It throws itself at the glass, throwing itself through it in one quick leap.

He runs to the window, mindful of the jagged glass and stares at it as it flies. As he watches, he can still feel the aftershocks of rage running through him. God, but he’d wanted to kill it - needed to kill it - for what it did to Sam.

Sam . . .

It’s not as if he’d forgotten, but more like he’s afraid to see. After all this time, after all the frantic worry, he’s finally here and he’s too afraid to see what has been done to Sam. He takes a few steps backward and picks up the flashlight with shaky hands, then, making his way over to where Sam lies, he sits down on the edge of the bed.

The beam of light shows him that Sam is lying on top of the covers, clad only in his underwear and curled up on himself as if trying to make himself very small.

He doesn’t miss the fact that Sam is shivering almost violently and when he reaches out a hand to Sam’s forehead, he finds the skin hot to the touch.

He then moves the flashlight from side to side slowly, taking in and assessing the damage.

And there is so much of it. It makes him gasp aloud, makes him want to drop the light and run far from here - pretend that he never saw so that he doesn’t have to deal with it.

There doesn’t seem to be an inch of Sam’s body that isn’t marked, damaged, in some way. Logically, he had known what to expect - he had seen the other victims. He had known it would be bad. But knowing something intellectually and coming face to face with it emotionally . . . two completely different things.

He stifles a sob and reaches again for the only part of Sam’s body that has escaped the nightmare relatively unscathed - his face. He lays a trembling hand against Sam’s cheek and leans in to whisper against his ear.

“Sammy. Sammy, wake up. It’s over. You’re safe now. It’s over.”

With bated breath he watches as Sam’s eyes flutter open, hurt and weary and lost until they focus on him.

Despite the situation, he breaks into a wide smile. He can’t help it - the sight of his brother opening his eyes is the best damned thing he’s seen in a long time.

“Dean?”

Just one word and he feels his smile fade, just a little. Sam’s voice sounds as if something’s torn up his vocal chords. Like he’s been screaming for . . .

For twenty-five days.

“Yeah, it’s me, Sammy. It’s me.”

“I thought we were done for the night. You said we were done for the night.” And then Sam holds one arm out toward him.

It takes a moment for him to understand what Sam is saying, what Sam is doing. Sam thinks that he, Dean, is the creature.

The rage is back, bubbling up just underneath the surface, and he has to push it back down. He pushes it down so he can concentrate on what’s important now - Sam.

“Sammy,” he says as he kneels next to the bed, keeping his face in Sam’s eye line. He reaches for Sam’s outstretched hand and holds it very gently in his own. “It’s me. It’s your brother. The monster is gone. That bastard is gone and it is never hurting you again, you hear me? You’re safe.”

He knows he’s gotten through when he sees Sam’s eyes widen and feels Sam’s hand tighten around his. He can see Sam in those eyes now, not a lost and broken victim.

“Dean?” Sam breathes out. “It’s you? Really you?”

It is the sound of Sam’s voice, sounding so uncertain, so afraid, so hopeful that does him in.

He reaches forward, carefully pulling Sam close and brushes a kiss against his forehead, all the while assuring him that yes, it is him. It is him.

He’s aware that he’s crying and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even bother trying to control the sobs or wipe away the tears. He’s never felt anything like this, this relief and joy and sadness all rolled up into one overwhelming package.

Because somewhere, deep down inside, he had given up hope. He would have kept searching, he would have searched like a madman for the full thirty days and he would have told himself that he was going to find Sam. But hidden away in a place so deep and dark that he hadn’t fully been aware that it existed, he was prepared to find his brother dead.

So to see him alive, to touch him, to speak to him . . . it’s almost too much. The emotions that have been generated render him helpless in their wake and he does the only thing he can do. He surrenders to them, crying over his brother, crying for his brother.

After a few moments, he finally pulls away, just enough so that he can run his fingers gently through Sam’s unruly bangs.

Then he clears his throat, preparing to get down to business. He’s wasted too much time. He knows that he needs to get Sam to a hospital quickly.

“Dean?”

He stills at the sound of Sam’s tremulous voice, sees that Sam is crying now too, but softly, quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Take me home. Please.”

In the safety of his own mind, he thinks that there is no home to go to. There hasn’t been a home in so long that he’s not even sure what the word means.

But he doesn’t say that out loud. Out loud he whispers, “Sure, Sammy. Sure. We’re going home. I’m gonna take you home.”


	10. Chapter 10

The twenty-fifth day

“Take me home . . . take me home . . . take me home.”

Sam isn’t so much saying the words as rushing them out of his damaged throat, like he can’t get them out fast enough or can’t say them enough times.

It hurts him to hear his brother sound so much like a victim, like the countless people they have rescued from the jaws of something horrible. He thinks back to all the times he tried to console someone who sounded like they were on the brink of losing their mind, gibbering from fear or pain. All the times he pitied someone, poor thing, poor bastard, so fucked up, and then moved on, hardly giving them a second thought.

And now here he is, and it’s his own brother who’s the victim, poor thing, so fucked up, his own brother who’s been reduced to begging like some scared, little boy.

He can’t even begin to comprehend what Sam must have endured to bring him to this. But the truth is, he doesn’t want to know, not now anyway. If he thinks about it, he’ll get angry again, and he doesn’t have the luxury of giving in to that emotion.

That will come later.

So he takes a deep breath to center himself, and focuses on sounding reassuring and strong when he speaks. “I will, Sammy. I’m gonna take you home.”

But Sam makes no indication that he has heard and the litany of what could pass for madness continues. “Take me home . . . take me home . . . ”

He takes a hold of Sam’s hands to draw his attention. “Sam. Listen to me. Just listen to me, ok? Please?”

The combination of firmness and desperation in his voice must have gotten through because Sam falls mercifully silent, his mouth almost snapping shut. Even in the dark, he can see Sam’s eyes, open much too wide, watching him, waiting. Listening.

“Ok,” he says as he gives a shaky nod. “Ok.”

He was not ready for this. He had expected the physical injuries, even if he wasn’t completely prepared for them, but this . . . this is beyond him. Even after Jess, even after the nightmare of her death, Sam was never like this. He wants to make it all better, to somehow take this all away, reverse it, fix it, and he can’t. He doesn’t even know where to start.

He drops his head for a moment, weary with the feeling of helplessness.

He raises it a few seconds later to find that Sam is still staring at him, still waiting. Listening, like his big brother asked him to.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he grabs the flashlight with one hand, holding it so that he can more easily see. His other hand, he places against Sam’s cheek. “Sam, can you walk? If you lean on me, can you walk?”

Sam tilts his head and looks down the length of his body. “No,” he says, sounding tearful but more lucid than he did just moments ago. “Haven’t been able to . . . for a few days.”

Ok. Plan B, then.

“Ok, Sam,” he says, once again trying to sound reassuring, as if he has this all under control, as if it’s all going to be fine. “It’s ok. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Setting the flashlight down, he gathers the edges of the blankets that Sam lies on and he wraps them around his brother’s body as best he can, figuring that he’ll have to carry Sam out of here. He winces in empathy when Sam moans and twitches as the fabric rubs against his battered body.

He looks down at his brother, wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets and wonders how he’s going to do this. Sam is so damn tall . . . maybe a fireman’s carry. He lays a hand against Sam’s abdomen, feeling around as gently as he can. A sharp intake of breath gives him his answer - damaged ribs, either fractured or broken. No fireman’s carry, then. He’ll have to carry Sam in his arms.

“Dean?”

He feels Sam’s hand encircling his wrist, the grip surprisingly strong after all he’s been through.

Why didn’t you fight it, Sammy? Why didn’t you run? Were you punished for it? Did you even try?

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“It’s really you?”

That innocent question brings the rage rushing back and it takes everything he has not to jump out the window and hunt that monster down so that he can tear off its fucking head.

He forces the rage down, satisfied when it doesn’t show in his voice. “Yeah, it’s me. Just me.”

“Where is it?”

“I . . . it got away. It let you go and took off.” He glances toward the window, notes with relief that the storm finally seems to be dying down. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry I didn’t kill it for you. But I promise you it’s not going to hurt you now. You’re safe.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I asked it to be you. Needed you so bad. Was so tired.”

Oh God, there it is again. The desperate madness, alive in Sam’s voice.

“It’s ok,” he says, although he’s pretty damn sure that it’s not ok. That it might not be ok for a long time. And still he says the words, because that’s all he can do. “Not your fault. It’s ok.”

But Sam is no longer listening. “My fault,” he says as he begins to weep. Not quietly like before. This time hysterical, gasping sobs tear from Sam’s throat, garbling his words. “My fault. I’m sorry. Needed you. Needed it to be you.”

He takes a moment to place his hands on either side of Sam’s face, trying once again to calm his brother, to center them both. “It’s ok, Sammy. None of that matters. None of it. What’s important is that we get you out of here, ok? We need to get you out of here.”

Sam shakes his head, as if negating everything Dean is saying. “Needed it to be you. Needed you.”

Dean wishes that he could comfort his brother. He wants nothing more than to gather him up in his arms and not let go, but he’s aware that Sam is hurt badly, that his shivering is growing worse with every passing second and that the frigid air coming through the open window isn’t helping matters any.

Comfort. Just one more thing he’ll have to save for later.

He’s managed to get one arm under Sam’s knees, the other under his back when Sam goes rigid and lets out the most heart-wrenching noise he’s ever heard.

It is not quite a scream. Instead it is a choked, mewling sound that no living creature should ever have to make. The fact that it’s Sammy making that sound is enough to make him feel physically sick. He almost drops him in his hurry to let go, to stop whatever he just did to force Sam to make that horrible sound.

“Sam, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Sam is shaking his head and taking in shallow, gasping breaths, as if he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Dean reaches one hand out to him when Sam’s arms tear free from the blankets and he begins to scrabble away, shrieking, “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

He lets his hand fall to the side uselessly, his voice low and urgent. “You need to calm down. Just calm down, Sam.”

He might as well be speaking Japanese for all the good his words do. Maybe Sam just won’t listen, maybe he can’t listen, but he’s moving further away now, perilously close to the where the edge of the bed must be.

Dean jumps forward and grabs him, not taking the time to be gentle, because it’s going to so much worse if Sam falls to the ground.

He can literally feel his heart clench in his chest when Sam once again freezes in his arms, his muscles seemingly turning into stone, and makes that inhuman sound yet again.

He holds on tight despite this, bringing them both back to the middle of the bed with effort. He lets go of Sam and wipes a hand across his brow, surprised to find that he’s sweating even in the chill air.

He wonders briefly if he shouldn’t just call an ambulance and have it be done with. He had thought this would be faster than waiting for the paramedics to drive through the rain and darkness, but now he’s starting to doubt his decision.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says as one hand automatically searches for the flashlight.

His fingers curl around it just as he realizes that Sam hasn’t answered him. That Sam isn’t making any noise at all.

He turns the light on him, training it immediately on his brother’s face. He sees that Sam’s eyes are closed, his features lax. He looks very young and very vulnerable.

But he also looks at peace.

He places his fingers along the side of Sam’s neck and feels the flutter just underneath his skin. It’s thready and a little too fast, but it’s there.

Unconscious then.

Not in any pain.

This is important - that Sam not be in any pain.

He bows his head and takes a moment to try to collect himself and stall the stinging tears that he can feel just behind his eyes.

When he lifts his head again, he feels stronger, more in control. Setting the flashlight aside, he begins the job of re-wrapping Sam in the blankets, grateful that at least this time, he’s not hurting his brother.

He hefts him up in his arms, ready to start the long walk out of this hell when he pauses.

He looks down at his brother’s unconscious form before turning his face up to the ceiling, and beyond that, the night sky.

Eyes searching the inky darkness, not feeling the slightest bit self-conscious, he whispers, “Thank you. Thank you for giving him back to me.”


	11. Chapter 11

He dreams.

He dreams about fire and an angel whose abdomen is a red, messy smear. He dreams about a stern father and a mother he didn’t even know.

He dreams about standing in front of a pretty stranger and begging her to take him instead of his brother.

He dreams of Dean holding him and whispering that everything is going to be ok.

He dreams of Dean, face lifted toward the sky, eyes closed, drinking in his pain as if it were wine.

He makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat as he tries to get away, but the talons imbedded in his arms aren’t letting him go anywhere and the hurt is spreading - radiating out from his arms, up his body, into his very bones.

He can’t even beg for it to stop. All he can do now is scream.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He gazes at the wall in front of him without really seeing it. Lost in his own thoughts, he is oblivious to all but the fact that Sam still hasn’t woken up.

It’s been four days since he’d walked into the emergency room with Sam’s body cradled against his own. Four days of Sam being kept under heavy sedation to ease the horror of what had been inflicted on his body.

And of those four days, he had occupied the room next door to Sam for two. The doctor lucky enough to treat both of the Winchesters had blamed exhaustion for his tumbling to the floor the moment they had pulled Sam from his arms.

He’d been tempted to say, “No shit, Sherlock. Twenty-five days of running on pure adrenaline will do that,” but he’d refrained at the last minute. It wasn’t the doctor’s fault that he’d collapsed. And it certainly wasn’t the doctor’s fault that Sam had been taken and precipitated the month-long desperate search.

There was only one to blame here and that was the monster that had hurt so many.

And maybe . . . just a little . . . Sam?

He catches himself, startled at the ease with which the thought comes to him. He doesn’t want to be angry at Sam. Not now, not when he’s so close to having him back. But the emotion is powerful and he finds himself riding its wave as he remembers the night it all started.

“Take me. He’s gonna fight you every step of the way. But I won’t. I’ll do whatever you want, whenever you want.”

He hears the words as clearly as if Sam had just sat up and spoken them aloud.

He should have stopped it then. He remembers trying to move but not being able to, barely able to speak past the blood in his mouth.

“Why would you do that?”

“Does it matter? Look, it’s a good deal. Me for him. And I’ll be even better. I promise.”

It had taken her only seconds to decide.

“Yes. Yes, all right.”

And then Sam’s final words to him, right before they’d both shot up into the air like a twisted version of Peter Pan.

“Dean, it’s ok. You have thirty days. I know you’ll find me.”

Sam should have never stepped forward, should have never made the deal. He’d been the one she wanted. And yeah, things had been looking grim, but he would have turned it around somehow. He would have beaten her somehow, if only Sam hadn’t fucking stepped in . . .

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a small whimper.

He leans forward in the chair and takes hold of Sam’s hand, watching intently as his brother begins to twist his head from side to side, obviously caught in the grip of another nightmare. This isn’t unusual, it’s happened several times in the past two days, so he tries not to get his hopes up that Sam is waking up.

He pats the back of Sam’s hand, the one he’s been holding all along, and whispers, “It’s ok, Sam. Just a dream. It’s ok.”

Usually, this is enough to still Sam. But not this time. As his movements quicken, they become more frenetic, until Sam is thrashing on the bed as if in the grips of a seizure, his moans long and loud.

Dean leans forward and grabs Sam’s flailing arms, pinning them down to the bed so he can’t hurt himself any worse.

He’s a mere second from hitting the call button for the nurse when Sam bucks up against him and screams.

It’s a little too reminiscent of what happened in the house only nights ago, and he lets go of Sam, suddenly sure that he’s the one who’s hurting him.

Mercifully, it doesn’t last long, and by the time the nurses are running into the room, Sam has already settled back onto the bed, his body limp.

He turns toward the nurses, explains, “He just had a nightmare,” before turning his attention back to his brother.

And sees that Sam is staring at him through heavy-lidded, frightened eyes.

“Sam,” he breathes out.

“Dean?” Sam asks and he sounds so damn young that Dean feels as if his heart will break from that one simple syllable.

He swallows thickly, all thoughts of anger gone as if they'd never existed. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. Good to have you back, man God, it’s good to have you back.”


	12. Chapter 12

He opens his eyes as the day nurse enters his room, a bright smile on her plain face. Dean would be mortified at not having a hot nurse, but he likes her. He feels safe with her.

“Good morning, Jim.”

He manages to produce a wan smile. “Good morning, Lynn.”

“How are you feeling this morning?” she asks as she begins the task of checking his bandages.

“I’m ok.”

That’s a lie.

“Good. And how’s the pain? On a scale of one to 10?”

“Barely there. A two.”

Another lie.

“Good,” she says as she moves to check his vitals.

She’s just started pumping the pressure cuff when she says, “Tom’s outside. I’ll let him come in after I’m done.”

He struggles for a moment with the unfamiliar name.

Tom? Does he know a Tom?

Then it comes to him. Tom is Dean. Just like his name is supposed to be Jim.

He nods, then lays quiet as she finishes, letting her fill up the silence with idle chatter. It soothes him somehow to hear her voice talk about unimportant, normal things. She could stay for hours, fussing over him, and he wouldn’t mind.

Unfortunately, the moment arrives when she finishes and has to leave. She pats him very lightly on the arm and says, “I’ll tell your brother he can come in now.”

He watches the door swing shut behind her only to swing open a few seconds later.

Dean must have been waiting right outside like always.

“I still can’t get over the cop bodyguards. It freaks me out every time I walk by them,” Dean says as he shoots a look at the closing door.

“How long do you think they’re gonna keep them there?” he asks. He doesn’t care about the answer in the slightest, but he figures that he should at least attempt a conversation.

Dean shrugs as he takes his customary seat next to the bed, and if he’s surprised that his brother is suddenly being talkative, he doesn’t show it. “Probably for as long as you’re here. They still think there’s a serial killer out there somewhere.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he replies blandly.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says and he knows that his brother is struggling to come up with something, anything, to talk about. “So, I talked to the detectives again this morning.”

He says nothing, waiting for Dean to continue, knowing he will.

“They wanted to know how I found you. I swear they’ve asked that a million times. I think it’s killing them that I found you before they did.” Dean gives a half-smile, looking just a little proud of himself.

And that strikes a chord of interest within him. For the first time since he’s woken up here, he feels something other than a crushing lethargy and numbness.

“How _did_ you find me, Dean?”

Dean looks away briefly, gaze skittering all over the room before coming back to rest on him. It takes him a few moments to properly understand what he is seeing written across Dean’s face. It’s not very often that his brother looks embarrassed and he finds it to be oddly endearing.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Dean says. He pauses a moment as if considering. “Actually, you just might.”

He listens as Dean recounts the story. From entering the church and praying to the moment that  
he saw the house and went inside, he listens.

“Do you really think God was guiding you, Dean?” he asks when Dean finishes.

“Something was, Sam. I don’t know if I could have found you otherwise. I mean, I looked. I looked everywhere.”

He gazes down at his ruined body then looks pointedly at his brother. “It wasn’t God. It was luck. Coincidence.”

“Sam?”

He steels his jaw, unsure if he wants to scream or cry. “There is no God.”

It feels like he is pushing broken glass through his throat, saying those words. It hurts, possibly worse than anything yet, to admit that he no longer believes. To admit that his belief was ripped away from him.

Very softly, Dean says, “Sam . . . ”

He breaks eye contact, stares at the ceiling instead. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

He hears Dean sigh in what sounds like frustration. Maybe sadness. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care.

“Ok,” Dean finally says, dragging his words out slowly, obviously fumbling with the change of subject. “So, how’s the pain today?”

“It’s fine. Barely there.”

“Why are you lying to me, Sam?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why haven’t you hit the button?”

He turns his head, looking up at the morphine that’s waiting to enter his veins. All he has to do is push the button.

But he hasn’t.

He’s too tired to lie. Dean will see past it anyway; he always does.

“The doctor said I should hold out as long as I could.”

“Yeah, and the doctor said only until you feel discomfort. He didn’t want you in any pain.” Dean pauses. “And neither do I.”

“It is only at discomfort. I can handle it.”

“What are you trying to prove, Sam? Come on, I know you, man. I can tell you’re hurting, so why are you being so damn stubborn? Just take the damn medication.”

He pushes himself up slightly, ignoring the pain that seems to come alive with the movement. “Stop telling me what to do!”

“Sam . . . ”

“You can’t tell me what to do! You can’t!”

He realizes, as he flops bonelessly back onto the bed, that this was a really stupid move on his part. Now he is trembling, his body is on fire, his throat aching and raw as he drags in breath after ragged breath.

He barely hears Dean calling his name, barely feels Dean grip his hand. The pain is everywhere now and he’s drowning in it. This is too much like before, and his panicked mind suddenly becomes sure that if he were to close his eyes he’d be right back in that house - trapped, helpless, alone.

He forces himself to slow his breathing down, literally willing his mind to remember that he is no longer a prisoner, that he is free and safe, until he can turn to look at his brother.

He sees that Dean is stepping away from him, on the verge of running out for the nearest nurse, doctor, anything. He can see it in his brother’s eyes. Dean is dancing on the edge of panic himself.

He manages a tiny shake of his head before grabbing the button and pressing it.

It feels like failure, this giving in. This giving up. He’d wanted to be strong. But he wasn’t then and he isn’t now.

A minute passes in awkward, uncomfortable silence as he and Dean alternate looking at each other and looking away.

Finally, as he feels the morphine begin to soothe his nerve endings, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Sam.”

He watches as Dean sits back down in the chair and runs his hands over his face as if scrubbing at it. “I just . . . are you ok?”

“Just didn’t want to be weak. Tired of being weak.”

“Why would you think you’re being weak? Sam, you were tortured for 25 days straight. Anybody would need the pain med, man. Anybody.”

He turns his head, not bothering with an answer, not really sure if he’s capable of giving one. The other reason he didn’t want to take the medication - it leaves him feeling like this - so confused and uncertain.

“This should have never happened to you. You should have never made that deal. You should have never let it take you,” Dean says, his voice sounding angry.

That somehow gets underneath the haze of the drug and registers. “I was helping you. I was protecting you.”

“I was doing just fine on my own.”

“She was about to take off with you,” he says incredulously.

“I was handling it.”

“Besides,” he says, fighting to hold on to lucidity as long as he can. “You would have done the same for me.”

“Yeah, but that’s my job, Sammy. To protect you.”

There’s something about the way Dean says those words, so matter-of-factly, as if there is no contending them that causes him to sit up. The anger is there, pulsing and alive, before he even recognizes the emotion. “When are you going to stop treating me like a little kid, Dean? I’m a man now. I can handle myself!” he shouts.

“Do you have any idea what I went through while you were off handling things? Do you?” Dean says, and he’s shouting too, leaning forward until the chair tips toward the bed crazily.

“Do you have any idea what I went through while I was waiting for you?”

Dean flinches, as if the comment he’d just flung out had been a knife instead of just words. Then he stands abruptly, pushing his chair out and away from the bed and stalking toward the door.

“I think,” he begins, “that you need some time alone, Sam. Before we both say something we’re gonna regret.”

He lies back down, turning his head away and wiping at tears he doesn’t remember shedding. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

He doesn’t look back, not even when he knows that Dean is gone and he is alone.

After a moment, he shifts until he is curled up on his side, body going fetal, the position soothing.

He hides his face behind one hand and thinks, even as he starts to sob, that if this is what insanity feels like, then it really fucking sucks.


	13. Chapter 13

Two days later they mumble half-apologies at each other. It’s their specialty, something they do so well they barely have to put any thought into it.

 _Hey listen, about the other day, I . . ._

 _No, me too, man. Me too._

And that is enough. They don’t speak of the fight again. They don’t speak about what caused it. That’s not their way. It never has been.

The doctor discharges Sam a week and a half later. Everyone wants to keep him there longer, and for once in his life Dean agrees with the authority figures, but Sam is insistent. He’s antsy and restless and he makes it clear that he is not staying. When he finally threatens to sign himself out AMA, the doctor acquiesces, letting Sam go with what seems like an armload of prescriptions and instructions for taking care of himself.

Outside the hospital, he helps Sam ease his body into the car, waits until he is settled, and then slides into the driver’s side of the car. Hands firmly on the wheel, he asks Sam where he wants to go. He doesn’t really expect an answer yet he’s not surprised when Sam says, “away from here.”

He is surprised however, when Sam turns to him, eyes flashing and determined, and says, “West.”

He doesn’t even question it. If Sam wants to go west, then that’s where they’ll go. Day after day, he drives the car closer and closer to the Pacific, never staying in one place for too long, letting Sam set their traveling pace.

As the days blur into each other, he finds himself aching with loss for his brother. He feels almost traitorous thinking it, he knows damn good and well that Sam is with him. Yet it’s almost as if Sam has undergone a phoenix transformation, and what’s arisen from the ashes is a pale shadow. New Sam is sullen and somber, speaking only when spoken to first. There is no light in his eyes, no laughter in his voice.

It’s strange to mourn the person that you see every waking minute of every day, but there it is.

He can recall at least two occasions when Sam’s doctor pulled him aside and gently but strongly suggested therapy for Sam. At the time he’d scoffed at the idea, even as he’d told the doctor that he would consider it.

Now he’s not so sure that the doctor wasn’t right. And although he knows conventional therapy isn’t the answer, not with the frantic pace that Sam is setting for them, he’s fairly sure that Sam’s going to have to talk to someone. He recognizes that Sam is broken. This, in and of itself, is frightening enough. What’s downright terrifying is that he doesn’t know how to fix him.

All he knows is that he has to try. He has to, because he’s all Sam’s got right now.

He’s tried to talk to Sam about his ordeal several times . . . and has dropped the subject each and every single one. He’s not good at things like this. Sam is his brother - he feels that this should be easy. So why do the words always strangle and catch in his throat?

He sighs and looks across the small expanse of motel room at Sam crawling into his bed. His brother still moves stiffly, as if he now possesses the body of an arthritic old man.

It pains him to see it. It is a stark reminder of his failure. It is a reminder that he should have saved Sam from this fate.

Sam turns on his side and pulls the covers up to his shoulders. “Goodnight, Dean,” Sam says as he turns gingerly on his side and pulls the covers up to his shoulders.

He’s about to echo back Sam’s words and turn off the light when he stops himself. Maybe it’s time to try again.

He sits up and clears his throat, feeling like a helpless idiot, already wondering what the hell he’s going to say.

 _But Sam needs this. Do this for Sam._

“Hey, Sam . . . ”

“Yeah.”

“I was wondering . . . I was thinking . . . that maybe you and I should talk about . . . you know . . . ” He gestures toward Sam’s body as if that will explain everything.

“What?”

He sighs, and pushes the words out from his throat before he can swallow them back down. “About what happened to you.”

Sam just looks at him for a moment, face stony and still. “No,” he says finally.

“Sam . . . ”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

And now that he’s started this, he’s surprised at just how easily the words do come. “I just think you should get some of it out in the open. This isn’t healthy, Sam. It can’t be.”

“Look, I appreciate you trying to help, I really do. But I’m not ready to talk about what happened.”

“Well, when do you think you’re gonna be?”

Sam drops his head, brow furrowed as if he hurts. “Soon. It’s gonna be soon.”

“Yeah, but . . . ”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Sam says, just before dropping his head back down and closing his eyes.

He turns off the lights with a sigh and drops his head to his own pillow. He knows a dismissal when he hears it.

A dismissal, yet he doesn’t allow himself to feel frustrated. He knows that he’s going to get Sam to open up eventually. And when Sam does talk to him, he’s gonna be there - to pick up the pieces. To help his brother.

He goes to sleep feeling better about things than he has in a long while.

Later he will think it ironic that the nightmares didn’t start until that night.

Now however, there’s no time for the luxury of thought as he rips the sheets from his body and launches himself across the room to where Sam is screaming. Not whimpering, not moaning - screaming.

He wraps his arms around Sam’s body, trying to hold down the flailing arms and legs, trying to keep them both from tumbling to the floor.

He shouts at Sam to wake up, shaking him just a little to get through to him.

In a scene eerily reminiscent of the one in the hospital, Sam’s body goes completely rigid before it goes completely lax.

He cautiously allows his own body to relax, muscles unclenching one by one, as he realizes that Sam is awake.

“No,”Sam says, arms moving up, hands pushing at his chest, pushing him away. “No, I can’t. No more. Please.”

His body tenses once again. Sam might be awake, but it’s clear that the nightmare isn’t over. “Sam, I’m not . . . I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not hurting you.”

“No. Not now. Can’t.”

“Sam, it’s me. Dean. Your brother. Look at me.” He grabs Sam’s chin, hard, and holds it steady, forcing his brother to look into his eyes. “Look at me.”

It takes a few seconds, but he can see it clearly. Can see the moment when the nightmare ends and reality begins. “Dean?”

He nods. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Whatever reaction he had been expecting from his brother, it was not for Sam to groan, long and low, and try to get away from him.

Only instinct has him hold on tight to Sam’s body, pressing it against his own.

Even when Sam’s hands bat feebly at his chest and his arms, he holds on.

He doesn’t even bother wondering if he’s doing the right thing, if maybe he should let Sammy go. He just keeps holding, even when Sam’s body slumps against his. He holds on even tighter when he hears the muffled noises and feels the small tremors that indicate that his brother is crying.

He runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, hoping that it’s soothing. “Hey, Sammy. It’s ok. It’s ok.”

Is this progress? He doesn’t know. He wants to think it is, but he just doesn’t know.

“It’s over, Sam. It’s ok. It’s all over.”

“Not over. Not going to be over. Not til . . . ”

“Til what, Sam?”

Sam raises his head, exposing his tear-stained face, and looks at him with eyes full of sorrow. “Not until I kill it.”


	14. Chapter 14

The next day they get back into the car and drive.

The next day is the same, as is the day after.

Day after day of moving the car forward until it seems an endless thing. As if they will spend eternity like this, their own special penance in Hades.

Every day he tries to get Sam to talk about what happened, what is happening, how he feels and what he needs. And every day Sam refuses to talk.

Except at night.

Although he doesn’t so much talk at night as scream. And shake. And sob.

Night time is the only time that Sam gives him the slightest peek into his fractured psyche.

He does the best he can. He holds Sam and whispers soothing things into his hair and rocks him back to sleep. He thinks that he’s actually getting pretty good at the comforting thing

And then the next day, they drive and say nothing about the night before.

In time, they enter California and Sam’s instructions on where to go begin to change. One day they’re going west until Sam abruptly tells him to head north. Then the next day they’re heading east again. Then south. Then back north.

It’s frustrating and wearying and makes no sense whatsoever, but he says nothing. If this is what Sam needs (and it must be, otherwise why would they be doing it) then this is what he’ll do.

Eventually, they end up in a little bar in the trendy town of La Jolla. It’s not normally his type of place, but Sam had directed them here, so he tries to make the best of it.

He takes a long swallow of beer and watches as Sam nurses his own. He tries not to let his gaze linger on the bruises encircling his brother’s wrist, tries not to think about all the ones that he can’t see.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He takes another obligatory sip of the beer before setting it down and looking around the bar.

It’s here.

He knows it. Knew as soon as he stepped foot inside the bar. The feeling that he’s had since the hospital, like someone has placed a giant magnet in the pit of his stomach and it’s looking for its opposite, has intensified so much it’s all he can do to keep still.

The only thing he doesn’t know is what face it has taken to wearing now. It could be anybody in here and he is well aware that he’s got to be careful.

He takes another look around, searching while trying to look like he’s not.

And then he sees her.

She is pretty but unassuming in her black tank top and jeans. There’s nothing about her that screams monster except for the fact that the closer she gets to him, the more he feels that magnet inside his body pulling toward her.

When she comes up to the table, it is all he can do not to stand up and touch his body to hers.

 _Not the right word. Not a her. An it._

“Hey, boys.”

Dean looks up at it and gives a polite smile, the kind you give to a stranger. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t recognize it. But then again, why would he?

It turns its brown eyes toward him. “Hi, Sam,” it says softly.

“Hi.”

At that Dean does a double take. “You two know each other?”

He responds without bothering to look away from it. “Yes.”

“We know each other very well,” it says. “Don’t we, Sam?”

“Yes.”

It leans down, just a little. “I’ve felt you, getting closer. I knew you were coming. I waited for you.”

At this he does stand up, moving closer to it. He can see into its eyes now. They’re not brown at all. They’re a deep, dark green. Beautiful really. He says, “I know.”

He can see Dean rise from his chair out of the corner of his eye. “Um . . . how do you two know each other?”

“You haven’t told him, Sam?” it asks.

“No.”

“Told me what?”

“You should have told him.”

He knows it’s right. He should have told Dean. Once the drugs had worn off and the pulling sensation had started. He should have told Dean that he and the creature were connected. That he could feel it, could feel its thoughts, was drawn to it. He should have told Dean. But he hadn’t. And he had never been able to figure out why.

“Dean,” he says. “This is the creature that tortured me.”

He says it without looking at Dean. Funny, but since this conversation’s started, neither one of them has even spared Dean a glance.

“What?” Dean asks, voice going ridiculously high with disbelief.

“I’m sorry. But it’s true,” it says.

“You fucking bitch. You are so fucking dead.”

At that it turns its head, fixes Dean with a calm stare. “Maybe. But it won’t be by your hand, Dean.” It turns back to him. “That honor belongs to you, Sam.”

He turns, finally, to look at Dean. Dean, his brother, who is looking so angry right now, but also so scared and so confused. “Dean, we’re going to go outside now.”

“Oh, fuck that! You think I’m letting you anywhere near that bitch, you’re nuts!”

It doesn’t matter that Dean is shouting, because he himself has never felt so calm. He feels a bit like he’s underwater, floating, and everything around him is slow-moving and languid. This is what he’s been waiting for since the moment he woke up in the hospital. This moment, right now.

“Dean. This isn’t your fight.”

“Sam. No.”

“This is between us.”

“Sam, you’re not even healed yet. She could hurt you. She could . . . take you away again.”

“This isn’t your fight,” he says a little more forcefully this time. But then he sees the determination in Dean’s eyes. He sees the worry and the fear. He relents with a sigh. “Fine. Watch. But from a distance.”

To his surprise, Dean does not argue.

He turns toward it and asks if this is all right.

“Of course,” it says, smiling a little and turning, already heading out the door.

They all walk outside to a dark corner of the bar’s parking lot. Dean, true to his word, hangs back, far enough away that he can barely hear their low voices but close enough to help if needed.

“I’ve missed you, Sam.”

He nods. He already knew that. He knows so much. “Crazy thing is - I’ve kind of missed you too.”

He stops to consider that statement. “Well, I haven’t missed the torture part. That . . . that wasn’t all that great.”

It smiles up at him. “No, I don’t suppose you would.”

“Did you know this would happen?” he asks suddenly. “When you left me? Did you know we’d be connected?”

“No. Nothing like this has ever happened before. But you’re the first person I’ve ever let live.”

He nods, as if that explains everything, when really it explains nothing. “I’ve come to kill you, you know.”

“I know.”

“Is this what you want?”

It nods, a sad smile flitting across its face. “I’m tired, Sam. I’m old and tired. I think it’s time.”

He smiles at that. He understands old and tired. He’s only twenty-four and he feels like he’s lived a hundred lifetimes.

He gestures toward the Impala and says, “My car’s that way.”

It seems to understand and begins moving toward it before he does.

He opens the car’s trunk with practiced ease and slides the machete out and into his coat pocket with a magician’s skills.

As they move to the farthest edges of the parking lot, he can see Dean out of the corner of his eye, shadowing them like a silent wraith.

“I’ve thought a lot about what you and I talked about,” it says as they stop. “I’ve come to believe that maybe it was fate - picking you.”

He pulls the machete out, feels the weight of it in his hand, remembers unending pain and misery. “Fate. Fate’s a fucking bitch, then.”

It steps up to him, close, places its lips against his. He allows this, goes as far as to open himself up to its kiss. He wonders briefly, as their tongues collide, what Dean must be thinking right now.

Then its lips are at his ear. It whispers, “Do it fast, before I change my mind.”

He knows that he has to act quickly, that its words are not idle. He hefts the machete up and swings with all the strength left to him.

He feels the blade slide clean through. Too cleanly really, as if it encountered no bones or sinew. He watches as the head drops to the ground and the body follows. As soon as they hit the ground, whatever magic veil had enveloped them is lifted and they turn twisted and hideous.

Sam wants to look away but he can’t seem to. He can’t tear his gaze away from the thing that hurt him so badly; the thing that’s brought a new level of nightmares and fear into his life.

He looks up at the blood soaked weapon and wonders why it suddenly weighs a ton. A moment later he falls to his knees on the ground.

He’d expected to feel victorious, to feel closure. But all he feels is a mind-numbing exhaustion.

Seconds later, he feels hands on his arms, and even through his sleeves their touch is cool, comforting. He looks up to see his brother’s face.

“You ok?” Dean asks.

He gives a wan smile. “I will be. I think. Now.”

“I can’t believe it just let you kill it. It didn’t even fight you.”

“It was old and tired. It was time,” he says, echoing the creature’s words from before.

“Yeah, well . . . I . . . I’d better go clean this up before someone comes this way.”

He gives the barest of nods before grabbing onto Dean’s jacket. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve been trying to talk to me, to help me.”

“Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath and fights the tears that he knows are coming. He has to fight them long enough to tell Dean. Just long enough to let him know how much he needs him. How much he has needed him and how grateful he is that Dean has been there.

He opens his mouth but the words stick in his throat, the tears already forming. He’s losing this battle with himself, his pain rendering him mute, but he can’t keep quiet any longer, he has to speak, he needs help so badly.

“Sam?”

One more deep breath and he tries again. Body trembling, voice thick with those tears that he absolutely refuses to let fall, he whispers, “I’m ready now.”


End file.
